


Almost Home

by bluebells



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate explanation of the blue vial, Character Study, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e13 Witch Hunt, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pirates of the Caribbean creeps its way in, Threesome - F/M/M, coda fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1333741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones excels at protecting his own interests, but with the ghosts of old loves and revenge fresh in memory, two particular people remind him that he can do more than that. And maybe 'the hero thing' is worth another try.</p><p>This began as a coda to s03e13 'Witch Hunt' and became a character study of Hook's relations with Emma and Neal. Dates from s02e22 "And Straight On 'Til Morning" to s03e13 'Witch Hunt'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Home

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to follow-up with more Hook Fire since [_the Only Constant_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1065488), and regmills has been feeding this need with his [hilarious tumblr parodies](http://regmills.tumblr.com/tagged/hook-fire) which you must check out if you haven't already seen them. Finally, all of Killian's dismissive (though fair and justified) comments since the mid-season return have been slightly infuriating; since I can't punch him through the screen, I give you this alternative instead.
> 
> And if you're familiar with some of Disney's other successes with Pirates in recent years, I'm sure you'll recognise Neal's second gift at the end. I'm surprised the show hasn't already given us that franchise.

_”He’ll turn up, Swan. He always does.”_

///

Killian Jones excels at protecting his own interests. 

For what is the purpose of duty without honour, or raw devotion without a reciprocal object of that affection?

After the loss of his kin and then his love, he will protect what shreds of dignity and self-possession remain. Killian Jones sheds the crown and the heart from his sleeve, he lets Captain Hook steer the _Jolly Roger_ into waters of turmoil and promises himself that youth will be enough, with enough time he’ll find a way to skin that crocodile. 

It’s a decision he regrets for a hundred years with the constant terror of Lost Boys on his bow and a dark malevolence forever in his periphery. He almost forgets the crocodile for a while, almost.

For the first two years, Hook wakes every dawn to the drum and thunder of footsteps on his deck wondering if, maybe today, Pan’s shadow will reap his soul. After a time, he learns to live with the tightness in his chest and the habitual afterthought on the tail of every quip and negotiation, _and what will today’s adventures bring us, Smee? Is today a good day? How’s your stomach? Is today a good day to die?_

Hook closes his eyes and the coal gaze of Pan’s shadow burns into his dreams.

The Captain’s nerves are grated raw by the time the men recover the drowned rat of a boy that night. And he is another tribute like any other, until he glares at Hook from under his wet mop of hair and spits his name, “Baelfire.”

‘Bael’ he says, but _hellfire_ he could have shared, for the way it makes Hook recoil.

Baelfire?

_”I left my son,” Milah confessed, chin trembling. “The one thing I still love on that shore. Oh, how he must hate me. Oh, Baelfire. Forgive me, my love.”_

And yes, it is that same nose, the same furious curl of his mouth, but his eyes….

He has the eyes of a crocodile.

“Welcome aboard, Baelfire. It’s a pirate’s life for you.”

///

When Baelfire is thrown into their lives, Hook is ashamed to admit his only thoughts are of how this boy can lead him to shearing that fool’s gold veneer from his father’s skin. When the days are longer and his hook weighs heavily on the stump of his wrist, his convictions are sour in his mouth.

He misses Milah. He misses the security and warmth of her moulded to his side, fingers tickling the hair at his nape and soft lips on his ear. He feels the phantom pinch of her fingers on his mutilated wrist.

_“What are you doing with my son, Killian?”_

His eyes wrench open and his back complains at how quickly he rights himself at the helm. The sun has left him light-headed and he hasn’t had a draught since its dawn. He swallows to moisten his throat and force his expression into a smile when Baelfire appears moments later at the top of the deck.

“Your sea legs aren’t bad for a land-lubber,” Hook says.

Baelfire blushes through his laughter and Hook’s throat constricts further. The grip of his dream is still upon him as Baelfire takes the helm and Hook etches their bearings into the wood. He hopes the tremble in his hook doesn’t show.

“You spoke of your mother’s fate, but your father – what became of him? You say he left you?”

A cloud passes over Baelfire’s face and Hook almost regrets asking the question, but this he desperately needs to know or he’ll have risked his entire crew for naught.

“It’s a long story,” Baelfire says, jaw tight and gaze stubbornly on the horizon.

And once Baelfire has told it, something of that gap has closed between them – a dagger, Hook finally has his solution – but the triumph clasps cold in his chest. 

Baelfire is watching him with new eyes… Baelfire is _watching_ him, and Hook can no longer think of only the crocodile.

The touch returns to the wrist of his hook like a clamp of iron and Hook hisses, eyes shutting briefly against the power of his own ghosts.

_“What are you doing with my son, Killian?”_

///

In the end, the answer is simple: nothing, Milah. Nothing at all.

_"This ship can be your home; your family. Just say the word. It's not too late to start over. I can change, Bae -- for you."_

Killian Jones excels at protecting his own interests.

///

He never expects to see Baelfire again, but then Hook is blind-sided in New York, stuffed in a closet and a lifetime of karmic retribution pushes him on a long and bruising downward spiral. Well, if Hook believed in such things as karma. 

Baelfire is alive and he appears in Hook’s sights again and again. The boy – nay, man now, this Neal Cassidy – has a stubborn habit of staying alive.

Until the day he doesn’t.

Emma Swan is a vision, a lass of reckoning, and by the time Hook realises he can no longer feel that icy grip around his wrist, the awkward struggle of being a help rather than a hindrance is distraction enough.

“I thought you didn’t care about anyone but yourself,” Emma challenges him.

He remembers a boy led over seas and under moonlight to his probable and violent death. He remembers the brave, baleful glare that was their parting and surrenders the magic bean that will lead Emma to her son, to Neal’s surviving heir. “Maybe I just needed reminding that I could.”

///

Hook’s senses are clouded with sleep deprivation, humidity and he wonders again why he didn’t think to procure another set of less chafing attire before setting foot in Pan’s cursed domain.

Then Emma kisses him under the night’s canopy, and he _burns_.

“I love you, Emma Swan,” he can’t be sure if he utters it aloud, touching his lips in his slow fall to cold awakening. He can’t be sure until he is in the Echo Caves and his confession extends the bridge, guiding Emma straight into Neal’s arms.

Baelfire. All roads keep leading back to this man. 

///

Hook is not proud of how he conducts himself on Neal’s resurrection, he is not only a pirate, but a gentleman… once upon a time. He used to pride himself on his good form.

It’s been a long number of months, he has been shackled, beaten, thrown through bookshelves, buildings and worse. He has made the unwelcome discovery that he still has the capacity to hunger and ache, he is raw and exhausted. It’s been a long year, a lifetime.

He can point to any of these excuses when he is grappling with Neal for a blasted coconut husk, but he will not, because he is not proud of himself.

He finally has a Northerly bearing again and somehow….

Emma isn’t the only one upset and confused at Neal’s reappearance.

///

Rumplestiltskin dies – the man and the father, not only the crocodile who had slain Hook’s love – sacrificing himself before his family’s eyes, and Hook feels betrayed by his own lack of satisfaction. A truce was struck and adventures were shared, but did he not endure centuries for this justice? Did he not submit the best years of his life for the end of this monster’s?

He staggers away from Belle’s inconsolable grief because Neal has gone still as stone and Hook has no means to comfort them. He has no right nor place in this moment.

Emma is already there, Snow White and her Charming Prince wrapping themselves around the bereaved. Neal is unresponsive, staring at the pavement where his father vanished in thunder and smoke moments before.

Belle cries like her soul is rent and Hook trembles.

“We’re here for a reason, love: Pan.”

“Is dead,” Regina answers.

Hook cannot argue that. “His curse remains. Can you stop it or shall we all start preparing our souls? ‘Cause mine’s gonna take some time.”

///

Saying goodbye to Emma is no great charge, because Hook knows as surely as he can feel the _Jolly Roger_ calling to him, wind in her sails, that he will find Emma again.

He watches Neal promise Emma the very same thing, and Hook has to wonder: maybe they both will.

When the curse is cast once again and the smoke settles into the familiar thick of the Enchanted Forest, he feels the sting of Emma’s absence keenly surrounded by those who knew and treasured her without reserve.

Emma’s parents embrace with a sob, the dwarves are already rousing like their volume alone could summon order to rabble, Belle wavers like the softest breeze could steal her away and Hook cannot look into Regina’s face. Who knew the loss of a child would bring such like torment to the evil Queen as Hook is feeling in his own heart.

Neal, however: his expression is still pinched in that concentrated mask and Hook has never felt more adrift.

He can’t stay here.

///

“And here I thought you’d gone and changed,” David sighs, stepping back to let Hook climb astride his horse.

The barb annoys him and he chews his cheek to measure his retort, mindful of the eyes watching them. “I tried the hero thing. It didn’t take.”

Neal hangs back adjusting his gloves, a mere observer to their conversation but his eyes narrow and it’s the first time he’s met Hook’s gaze since his father passed. In less than a breath, Hook is back on the _Jolly Roger_ facing a young boy's disgust and betrayal.

This time Neal doesn’t even have the heat to look disappointed. Hook swallows thickly and looks instead to the figure of Snow White stomping across the meadow, arms swinging. 

“So, that’s it? Emma’s gone and you’re gonna go back to being a pirate?”

That’s funny. He can’t restrain the smile. “Back, milady? I’ve always been a pirate.”

///

It takes him three months, twenty-eight days, five skins of wine and the trade of his steed to locate and secure the _Jolly Roger_.

The groan of her planks under his boot is like the first knock on the door of home. The sun is high, a North-Easterly breeze blowing through the tear of her mainsail, but he can heal that. He can mend anything now that he’s reunited with her again.

His hand curls around the helm and he rests his forehead there, trembling on a steadying breath. For the first time in these months, he feels something slide into place.

He’s almost home.

///

Neal appears once more when Hook least expects him. Hook strongly considers instituting this as an axiom of his existence.

Their encounter is brief and, frankly, worrying because Neal is clapped in irons and being dragged, kicking and fighting, through Portsmouth by a tall pack of creatures with monstrous wings and a blood-curdling trill.

Wait a moment… are those… monkeys?

Hook abandons his armful of supplies, unheeding the crash of bottles on stone, the salted produce that no doubt will be pilfered or rolled to the seas by the time he returns. Ducking around the morning’s market goers scattering in the chaos, he pulls his sword with some flourish he’s sure Neal would appreciate if he wasn't so stubbornly sour.

“I say!” he grins, successfully fending off the claws of the last monkey and it takes to flight with an indignant squawk. “Did someone call for a rescue?”

Neal glowers at him from the sprawl of mud, arms tangled in chains. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Hook falters at the long gash from Neal's wrist to shoulder. The wound is deep and staining his sleeve quickly. Hook drops to one knee, sheathing his sword and applying pressure. He searches his pockets vainly for something to bind the wound. “Blazes, mate, you’ve got to start hanging with some better play dates. Where are Snow and David?”

“Taken,” Neal gasps at the touch on his arm, and Hook stops.

“What do you mean, taken? Taken by whom? What’s happened?”

Neal’s face is paling and they both startle at the vengeful howl from above. Hook squints at the shadows darting past the sun.

“They’re coming back,” Neal groans, and then Hook blinks at the small wooden box and blue bottle Neal is pushing into his hands. “They won’t follow you; it’s us they’re after. But you can get to Emma.”

Hook hangs onto Neal’s hands when he begins to slump, then pulls him forward to support his weight. “Emma? I’ve been trying for - hang on, lad. We’re getting you out of here.”

But Neal shoves him back with deceptive strength, snarling, “They’re coming!”

Hook glares from his sprawl in the mud. Poor form assaulting a fellow trying to lend assistance. The begrudging appeal in Neal’s face stops his protest, as does the angry cry from above preceding the swoop of a black cloud of feathers and claws. 

He and Neal take off running, the latter slipping dangerously in the mud and Hook wagers there was something like poison laced in those claws. He supports Neal with an arm around his shoulders, but they’re forced to take cover again not twenty yards further on the docks.

“What are you doing so far from the Enchanted Forest, Neal?” Hook hisses, drawing his sword again and checking aft for more swooping monkeys. “And what in the blazes are those things?”

“Get that potion to Emma,” Neal stammers, trembling, a fevered sweat breaking on his brow. “Her parents – the realm needs her. She has to remember. Couldn’t find Ariel. You’re the only one who can cross the realms.”

Hook squares his jaw. The rate of Neal’s worsening condition is starting to war for his attention. “All right, mate. But come with me.”

Neal frowns and peers over the crates, already pushing off. “They’ll destroy your ship. We need you to come through here, okay?”

Hook vacillates wildly within a breath between dragging Neal behind him to the _Jolly Roger_ and allowing him to lead these horrifying creatures away. But if it’s Emma and her parents, if it was the whole realm….

If Neal died, Emma would never forgive him. 

If Neal died… the idea tightens his stomach with dread, his breath quickens and he squeezes Neal’s undamaged shoulder.

“Come with me,” Hook appeals one last time. The small box and blue bottle are slippery in his hand.

Neal is shaking with visible strain, but his face lights up with the first smile Hook has seen since Neverland when Neal was reunited with his boy. 

Bemused, Neal studies his face… _Neal_ and not Baelfire, and no ghost of Milah or Rumplestiltskin linger when Neal’s eyes are on him. His fingers dig tightly into Neal’s filthy shirt.

“The compass’ll take you to her,” Neal says, eyes narrowing intently. “Need you to try that hero thing one more time, okay?” 

Neal’s hand punches out, Hook plunges backwards into the sea with a mighty splash and his shout of surprise is garbled by the rush of water that fills his mouth. Stunned, he struggles to right himself, kicking and pushing towards the light. He gasps, breaking the surface. 

“Neal!”

The docks are empty.

///

**Six months later**

“Wait. Neal… is he here? So, he might have been taken, too?” Emma’s voice lifts with hope, sitting forward in the chair of her parent’s Storybrooke apartment.

Hook’s back stiffens and he clutches tighter to the compass in his pocket, Neal’s strange contraption that guided him back to Storybrooke by the mere thought of Emma.

Killian Jones excelled at protecting his own interests. And perhaps there is no greater interest, no greater purpose of duty or devotion than having enough courage to live with oneself at the end of all deeds.

_”Need you to try that hero thing one more time, okay?”_

“He’ll turn up, Swan. He always does.”

They’re almost home. 

Inside his pocket, the compass ticks over to a new direction.


End file.
